Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Growing A Reader with David Arnold, author of Mosquitoland

WHERE IT STARTED

By David Arnold

When I was in middle school, I read the cover off Jurassic Park. I’d finish reading it, and simply start over. I was convinced Jurassic Park—the place, not the book—not only existed, but existed for me. Alan Grant, Ellie Sattler, Tim and Lex, the inimitable Ian Malcolm—this was my family, Jurassic Park our happy home. But, David, you say, it was an island full of dinosaurs. (Or, in the immortal voice of Jeff Goldblum, it was a “dinosaur island.”) To that, I say, Yes, what of it? Its dinosaur island-ness was at the very heart of my desire to live there. The risk of losing life and limb—of causing a poor, unsuspecting velociraptor some serious heartburn—was not quite the deterrent you might think. It was, in fact, a checkmark in the “pro” column. Outlandish? Outrageous? Outstanding, more like. I felt this way because Jurassic Park—the book, not the place—did, in fact, exist for me.

But this
is not where it started.

When I was
eight, my dad took me to the library. (The greatest sentence ever, yeah?) Our
plan: check out the first book in the Hardy Boys series, The Tower Treasure, then read it aloud together. I think my dad had
the whole thing pretty romanticized in his head—some real father-son bonding
time, possibly with a log on the fire, a steaming mug of hot chocolate, and
hey, if some smooth jazz happened to play in the background, all the better. In
reality, Dad simply had too much on his plate, too many real world
responsibilities to truly devote the proper amount of time to the noble
adventures of Frank and Joe Hardy. Theirs was a righteous calling, not for the
faint of heart or, at the very least, not for those who had jobs and kids and
mortgages and all the other ridiculous trifles adults deal in on the regular. I
left Dad in the dust.

But this is not where it started.

When I was a kid, I loved the rain. (Still do, actually.) I would put all my books in milk crates, and drag them to a particular spot in the living room floor. Our house at the time had these tall windows that went almost to the ground, and there was a couch positioned in such a way as to leave about three feet of floor space between it and one of these tall windows. Here I would park my books, build them like two walls on either side, the couch behind me, the window in front of me, the rain outside, the story within. And, in true little kid type-A fashion (a trait I now see in my son, and whoa, is that weird), I called this my Rainy Day Place.

And while that’s my first real memory of loving books, I doubt that’s where it started. My parents loved books, too (see above, the greatest sentence ever), and I have a sneaking suspicion I owe them for the Alan Grants, the Frank and Joes, the Rainy Day Place. I have a sneaking suspicionthat’s where it started.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go read a book to my son. Something with dinosaurs, I think.

David Arnold lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with his (lovely) wife and (boisterous) son. He is the critically-acclaimed author of Mosquitoland,
which has been translated into over a dozen languages. Previous jobs
include freelance musician/producer, stay-at-home dad, and preschool
teacher. He is a fierce believer in the power of kindness and community.
And pesto. He believes fiercely in pesto.

Vic and Mad, two New
Jersey kids, are being held in separate interrogation rooms in the
Hackensack Police Department. Each chapter is told from their
alternating points of view in the present, as they’re being questioned
about their involvement in a murder, and the past, which follows how Vic
befriends Mad and their adventures with a bunch of misfit youngsters
from their neighborhood.

After the sudden
collapse of her family, Mim Malone is dragged from her home in northern
Ohio to the "wastelands" of Mississippi, where she lives in a medicated
milieu with her dad and new stepmom. Before the dust has a chance to
settle, she learns her mother is sick back in Cleveland.

So she
ditches her new life and hops aboard a northbound Greyhound bus to her
real home and her real mother, meeting a quirky cast of fellow travelers
along the way. But when her thousand-mile journey takes a few turns she
could never see coming, Mim must confront her own demons, redefining
her notions of love, loyalty, and what it means to be sane.

Told in an unforgettable, kaleidoscopic voice, Mosquitoland is a modern American odyssey, as hilarious as it is heartbreaking.